


how to heal in pink & blue

by erce3



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura (Voltron)-centric, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Lesbian Allura (Voltron), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, only a little bit tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erce3/pseuds/erce3
Summary: Because –– because Romelle doesn’t look at her the way Lotor did, expectant and knowing. Romelle looks a little nervous, shyer, but with a steel in her eye like she’s ready to take whatever Allura throws at her. Like she’s not waiting for Allura so much as willing to have what Allura wants to give.In which Alteans see in color only after seeing their soulmate. Or, it takes Allura two seconds to recognize Romelle as her soulmate and a little longer to fall in love with her.





	how to heal in pink & blue

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this was supposed to be 1k words at the most but i, uh, got carried away...
> 
> in sum, @dreamworks let allura grieve a bit and also be a lesbian thanks
> 
> there is some lotor/allura mentions in this but its usually in the same sentence as insulting the purple guy or invalidating their relationship so, uh, yeah

When Allura locks eyes with Romelle and the world blooms into color, the first thing she notices is that the underneath of Romelle’s eyes glows blue. The second thing she notices is Lotor’s outstretched hand, and the color of her own skin against his, purple against brown. He looks so much more Galra in color, she thinks, and lets that light the match to the gasoline already slicked inside. Allura never intended to be so angry, to be so brash –– but she still flips him and enjoys the crack of his body hitting the floor, ignoring the urge to look over, past the paladins and to the Altean across the room.

 

Soulmates are a complicated thing, she learns from the young age of five. All species supposedly have them, her mother says when Allura asks what the color is called beneath her eyes. Alteans are the only ones to have such a physical, chemical response, though.

 

Five-year-old Allura laughs. She doesn’t know what else to do –– Allura used to laugh at everything, before her mother scolded her out of it. Princesses don’t giggle, she was told. Princesses are tight-lipped and diplomatic and follow Altean customs. They used to fight about this. Not like any of it matters now.

 

Seventeen-year-old Allura laughs as well, but it’s more bitter, because with soulmates comes the knowledge she’ll never see the pink of her armor, which the paladins insist is her color. She doesn’t understand the contrast of Lance’s blue to Keith’s red, because they look the same shade to her. Doesn’t really understand the connection of color to the lions’ names. Ten thousand years is far too long to find her soulmate. She’s almost made peace with it.

 

It still hurts, though –– a sharp reminder of another thing she’s lost, of something she can’t hope to get back.

 

Until now, that is. Until she peaks over at Romelle and lets her loveliness wash over her. Until she sees Lotor’s purple skin and feels bile rise in her throat. He’d looked so Altean, _felt_ so Altean, before she could see in color.

 

She flips him and Allura forces herself to focus on the task at hand, even if it is dizzying, blinding, difficult –– color is _overwhelming._ She barely speaks to Romelle during the whole ordeal. It is only after, once the castle is destroyed, once her heart is palpitating and the reality of the whole situation has sunk in, that she has a chance to think. She’s struck with an urge not to talk to Romelle, though, but Coran.

 

Instead it’s Romelle who is in her lion and Allura who is trying to remember how to breathe. “So,” says Romelle, softly. “You’re a princess.”

 

Allura’s surprised that Romelle hasn’t brought up color, and then suddenly worried. The thought dawns on her, that maybe Romelle can’t see the pink of Allura’s uniform, the soft blue of Allura slash Lance’s lion. (She feels, sometimes, that this lion isn’t _really_ hers, that she’s just borrowing it. She tries not to dwell there, though, tries to focus on the task at hand).

 

(Allura always tries to focus on the task at hand. There’s always so much to do).

 

Allura hums. “Not anymore,” she says softly, and then catches herself. This is an Altean –– there isn’t an Altea, but there are other Alteans. The thought is just as dizzying as her the newly discovered rainbow.

 

There’s a metaphor there, that Allura can see rainbows now. She can’t quite remember how the Earth symbol goes, but she knows it’s connected to love. She remembers Lance snickering when Keith had showed up one day with a rainbow bracelet, and then complaining he didn’t have one of a different set of colors. Blue...red and pink, maybe? She thinks that’s wrong, but she isn’t sure.

 

Allura had thought it wouldn’t matter at the time, because she couldn’t see what they were talking about. It was frustrating, maybe, but she thought she’d come to terms with being colorless and soulmate-less.

 

“You’re my princess,” says Romelle so fervently that Allura’s breath hitches. She’s supposed to be piloting her lion. She’s supposed to be following Keith’s lead, she reminds herself. She’s not supposed to be so affected by Romelle. “I mean,” Romelle adds a moment later when Allura doesn’t respond, “if that’s what you want. I suppose I never asked if you wanted to be a princess,” she says, and laughs.

 

Allura is surprised by the softness of Romelle’s laugh, her accent –– some mix between Galra and Altean, heavy with a language Allura barely recognizes. “I’m not sure anymore,” says Allura honestly. “I just want –– I just wanted my people back.”

 

If Romelle notices the switch in tense, she doesn’t mention it. “I’m sorry Lotor perverted that,” she says, and her voice is icy cold. Allura can’t, _will not_ , forget that Romelle has lost so much to Lotor. Allura can’t let her feelings cloud this. She’s not even sure if Romelle is ready for a relationship, much less herself.

 

(She’s not even sure how to kindle one).

 

When she was fourteen, Allura had travelled off-world to the Galra planet. She can barely speak its name now, but this was a long time ago, back when she barely knew Lotor and her world was black-and-white in the literal and metaphorical and Allura was sure it would pop into color, soon, soon. At the time, her father was checking in on Honerva’s research.

 

She remembers it like it was a moment ago: tugging her maid around to see the greenhouse. In her memory, Daibazaal is still standing, a desert planet, rocky and sparse of grass. In an attempt to attract visitors, the Galra had set up a renowned greenhouse, full of colors and scents Allura had wanted to familiarize herself with.

 

_How can you imagine color?_

 

It goes like this, her memory. The Galra have designed glasses specifically for species like Alteans to allow them to see in color. This is what made a simple greenhouse renowned, so coveted, what made Allura beg her father to take her to Daibazaal. When Allura slips them on, it’s like the world has shifted underneath her, has changed to accommodate her desires.

 

She feels like a princess in this moment, able to command for and receive anything at the slightest whim. The color green remains painted in her memory even now as, in her mind’s eye, she looks out over the seemingly endless blanket of lush leaves. “Wow,” she says to her maid, plucking a pink flower and tucking it behind the other girl’s ear. “It’s incredible.”

 

Her maid flushes, and Allura is tempted to close the distance, to kiss her. This has been a long-recurring argument with her mother –– what if someone socially unacceptable is her soulmate? Can’t Allura pursue someone she loves? But this maid isn’t her soulmate, won’t be her first love, her mother says, and so Allura buries her desire.

 

She keeps the glasses, though.

 

“Allura,” says Romelle now, soft. “What do you know of Earth? That’s where the paladins are from, yes?”

 

Allura nods. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to describe it. “I don’t know anything,” she confesses, and it feels good not to know anything. It feels good not to have to be in charge and in control for once. “I know a little bit about Earth culture?” she offers after a pause, suddenly shy. “The paladins have taught me some things.”

 

Coran, who’s been pacing the lion, appears now. She can feel him behind her. In some ways, she’s grateful he’s here as a buffer between her and Romelle (in others, she wishes she could speak to Romelle alone). “That’s right,” says Coran pleasantly. “The paladins have taught us a lot.”

 

“Hm?” says Romelle, tone curious.

 

“Yes. Like…” Allura pauses, smiles wickedly under her helmet. “Like updog.”

 

She feels a little bad when Romelle doesn’t even blink. “What’s updog?” says Romelle, and something like glee slicks Allura’s insides. She’s always the end of these jokes with the paladins, except maybe Keith, though he had stopped responding after the first few. Coran muffles a laugh behind her.

 

“Nothing much, how about you?” says Allura, parroting Lance’s response and giggling. When Romelle doesn’t respond, Allura explains: “It’s a Terran joke. It’s…” she pauses, trying to remember how Lance had described it. “‘What’s up’ is a colloquialism for ‘how are you’,” she settles on. “And ‘dog’ is an informal thing to call your friend. I think.” She doesn’t add how she’d called Lance and the other paladins ‘dog’ for the next couple days, until she’d been told by Shiro that it wasn’t how it worked.

 

As much as Allura loves her paladins, sometimes they only emphasize how alone she is.

 

“Oh,” says Romelle, and snorts, but it sounds like she’s laughing _at_ Allura. “That’s… funny, I think?” Allura resists the urge to twist in her seat and look over at the other Altean, to look at the lines on her cheeks and to touch them. Allura has been so alone for so long now, she’s grieved and mostly compartmentalized what happened to Altea. She’s just barely accepted how alone she is.

 

She’s almost angry that she didn’t need to suffer so much.

 

“I didn’t get it, either,” says Allura liltingly. It occurs to her now that she could set the lion on autopilot, that she doesn’t need the controls beneath her hands at all times. She considers this, pauses. “I don’t understand a lot of their jokes, but it’s okay. They’re my family, so.”

 

She twists and lets go of the lever closest to her, sends a mental command to Blue to follow the other paladins. Allura glances over at Coran, wonders if he knows anything about her newfound sight. He’s not looking at her, but at the vastness of space beyond them. She catches Romelle by surprise –– she can tell because Romelle snaps an expression off her face quickly, like she’d been studying Allura and doesn’t want Allura to know.

 

A pang of guilt twists through Allura then. She’s barely done anything to accommodate Romelle. There isn’t much room in her lion, either. “Um,” says Allura, racking her brain for how to engage the girl in front of her, “what is the colony like?”

 

Now that she can see her, Allura is surprised by how expressive Romelle is. Romelle’s eyes cast down quickly, and Allura suddenly wonders if the colony means to Romelle what it means to Allura. “I wasn’t…” Romelle shrugs, pauses, and then shakes her head. Her expression smooths into something unreadable. “I’ve never known anything else,” she says finally.

 

Allura nods. “It has been a long time since Altea has fallen, anyway,” she says, mostly to herself. “The colony could be completely different from my –– our? –– home.” Coran makes a noise of affirmation here, rests a hand on her shoulder. _I will remember_ , it says. _You’re not alone_. Allura has never been so grateful for his presence

 

She straightens. “You must be tired, though,” she says louder. “The lion is on autopilot. Would you like to rest? I’m going to try to find something.”

 

Romelle blinks, and Allura notices how exhausted Romelle actually is. She must have travelled with Keith and Krolia with little to no breaks, Allura thinks, and smiles to herself. It sounds so Keith that she almost bursts into peals of laughter. “Could I?” says Romelle, almost like she doesn’t believe Allura. “That would be kind of you.”

 

Allura nods, moves out of the seat. “Yes, of course,” she says, and pulls a blanket from a hatch. “You’ve…” here she pauses, not wanting to overstep, but barrels on before she can overthink it. “You’ve given me a lot of hope. Thank you.”

 

Romelle nods, and Allura watches her form for a moment as Romelle settles into the chair and begins to doze. She admires the colors around her, suddenly exhausted herself and curious. “Coran,” she says, once she’s sure Romelle is fast asleep, “did you ever meet your soulmate?”

 

Coran shakes his head. “Do you think that that’s a trait the colony Alteans share with us?” he says, interest piqued. Allura reminds herself that Coran has just lost his last connection to his family, that he needs a distraction. “It has been ten thousand years. Perhaps they are not truly Alteans anymore… they could have become new species.”

 

Allura shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, and she’s all of a sudden shy. This is a conversation she would have had with her mother. It would have been celebrated by a feast and perhaps a festival, depending on who it was. Allura remembers being royalty and important without deserving it, longs to be pampered and childish and immature.

 

She turns to her boxes and looks to see if she can find the glasses. It’s been ten thousand years, but she’s kept them on her anyways, even if she hasn’t tried them. They feel like Galra make, but they also feel so much like the old Allura, before the war hit and she grew ten years in two weeks, that she couldn’t get rid of them. Not even after being woken up by five humans and a war effort to continue.

 

They’re right where she’s put them, of course. She wonders if she should try them on, realizes she doesn’t need them. “Coran,” she says, thumbing the lenses, “I can see now. What do I do?”

 

It comes out more scared than she intended. Maybe it’s because the last girl Allura loved never even looked her way. Maybe it’s because the first girl Allura even thought about loving was whisked away by her eagle-eyed mother. Maybe it’s because Allura doesn’t have time for love, never has.

 

Coran doesn’t speak for a long time. He pulls her close and holds her instead. In their time with the paladins, he’s become much more of a father figure than Allura’s sure he ever intended to be. Allura hated Coran at first, angry that her father chose to save the older Altean instead of himself. She knew it was silly, knew it was logical to save Coran, but ––

 

“Have you spoken about it?” says Coran after a long time. “That might be a good place to start, Princess.”

 

She mulls it over, catches over the word ‘princess’.“Coran,” she says softly, a question already forming on her tongue. “My mother and father are dead, aren’t they?”

 

He steps back, not answering. He doesn’t need to, anyway. Allura _knows_ her father is dead, knows she lost her mother during the beginning of the war. Zarkon had killed her himself. She remembers that, too, clear as day. Sometimes she wakes bathed in sweat, her mother’s name still on her tongue. Remembers the noise of the gunshot, the worse strangled thing from her father’s throat as he ran to his wife.

 

Allura takes in a shaky breath and sighs. “That makes me queen, wouldn’t you think?” She lets her gaze wander to Romelle, breathing softly. She wonders how she’s supposed to foster anything if she’s so far from together herself.

 

Coran smiles at her, and Allura forces her own lips to curve upwards. There’s a pause, and then he laughs. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, and then laughs again. She begins to laugh, too. “Queen Allura, huh? Sounds good.”

 

Allura snorts. “I’ll take being princess for now.”

 

They pause, and then Coran points. “Look, Princess, this is where we’re stopping.”

 

The lion lands softly and Allura moves to rouse Romelle. Coran decides to go ahead, motioning for her to _do_ something. She nods at him, and suddenly feeling brave, says, “We should talk.” It feels like something has shifted. “I...um, I don’t know how much you know about the old Altea. I feel like I have so much to teach.” Romelle blinks up at her, sleepy-eyed.

 

Allura smiles abashedly. She was an adept student, a ravenous learner, but she’s never been much of a teacher. Coran has always been much better at that than she was. There was a boy, another royalty, who was like that in her class. (She’d insisted to be taught with other students, to socialize). He’d been a bit like Lotor, silver-tongued and manipulative. It still hurts to think he’s dead, though.

 

“I’d like that,” says Romelle finally, then pauses, bites her lip. “But…”

 

Allura tilts her head in confusion. Her gaze flicks down to the pink of Romelle’s mouth, just for a moment. Romelle plays with her long, thin earring nervously, then blurts, “I can see in –– I don’t know, color, maybe? I thought –– I thought soulmates were…” she trails off, flushing. “Not that we are…”

 

“We are,” says Allura quickly. “I suppose it must have been much more common with a larger planet. I always thought mine died, though. In the war, I mean.”

 

They’re silent for a moment.

 

In Altean mythology it was said that certain colors of quintessence were paired with others.  Allura’s was pink –– her soulmate would have blue quintessence, she was told from a young age. Her mother would rock her and croon at how much Allura would like the color, once she saw it.

 

Allura did see it, when she slipped the glasses over her nose at Daibazaal. She’d decided then that she liked her own pink better, that she’d liked the pink of the flowers around her. Funny that, thinks Allura now, that she’d been so drawn to the color of grieving. Especially now that she carries her planet’s death on her shoulders.

 

Allura studies the blue beneath Romelle’s eyes, and decides she likes it. Decides she wants what she thought fate had cheated her of. Decides this is how she should precede. She clicks her tongue. “What do you know about old Altean courting rituals?”

 

It’s funny, that, because Romelle’s eyes widen and she says, “I thought you loved Prince Lotor!” As if Romelle had immediately resigned herself to being alone. As if Romelle didn’t even give it them a thought. Allura isn’t sure whether or not that stings or it’s endearing. Romelle rises from the chair, moves closer to Allura. “Didn’t you just…”

  
Allura nods, pauses. “Yes, I did just...lose him,” she says. “I’m not ready to…for anything, yet, but… I’d like to start over, with the intention of going somewhere in mind?” She doesn’t say: I don’t think I ever loved Lotor so much as the validation he gave me. She doesn’t say: I don’t think I could ever love him. She doesn’t say: he was another connection to Altea that betrayed me.

 

Romelle looks at her, frowns. “Princess,” she starts, and pauses. “I can’t,” she says eventually, and begins to walk out of the blue lion. “I don’t want to be the stitching of a broken heart.”

 

Allura stills. “Okay,” she says eventually, and watches Romelle’s retreating form cross over to stand next to Krolia. When she herself exits the lion, she’s at least surrounded by what she realizes is unconditional love from the paladins, from Coran, from the mice. It hurts, of course, the rejection of even a possibility.

 

She pulls the glasses from her pocket and studies them. This is enough, she thinks. For now.

 

They settle into a sort of rhythm of avoiding each other. It’s hard, for Allura. She has a lot of burning questions, a lot of things she wants to know about the Altean colony, but she lets Coran ask. No one seems to notice she lags; she assumes it’s because they think she’s heartbroken over Lotor.

 

She’s not exactly heartbroken. Betrayed, maybe. Angry. But Allura has been angry for so long –– angry at the Galra for destroying everything. Angry at her father for leaving her. Angry that she survived. Angry at herself, for not being grateful. It’s a feeling she sinks into, especially its familiarity.

 

It’s Lance, though, that notices her hesitance. He’s always noticed these sorts of things, has always been careful to notice the rest of the team. “Allura,” he says one day, once they’ve landed on another planet on the way to Earth, where they’ll plan and train and rebuild. “Allura, are you okay?” His expression is soft and concerned and sincere.

 

Allura thinks about it. “I’m not sure,” she says finally. “I’m not upset over Lotor, if that’s what you mean. I think I knew it would happen.”

 

Lance looks at her quizzically, then says: “And Romelle?” He pauses. “It seems like you’re avoiding her. Maybe she deserves it, or whatever, but I think she’s a nice person.” He emphasizes ‘person’ like he wants Allura to think about Romelle beyond a link to Altea. Allura supposes she’s been looking for Altea in people for so long she doesn’t know how to stop.

 

Allura dips her head and sighs. “I don’t know how to talk to her,” she says finally. She doesn’t know how to be vulnerable, she thinks, but maybe sometime she ought to try.

 

Lance nods his head emphatically. “I know what you mean,” he says and laughs. “Man, if I knew how to talk to people like Romelle––” He shrugs. “I bet it’s weird, like Back to the Future, but like, times ten? I don’t know. Anyway. Point is, Allura, you’re the scariest, most badass person I know. You’re also, like, the most, like, diplomatic? You can talk to her.”

 

Allura laughs. “What’s Back to the Future?” she says, and Lance waves his hand. She’s used to that, though, the Earth talk.

 

“Talk to her, Allura,” is all he says. “I think she feels just as uncomfortable.”

 

Allura realizes that none of the paladins know why. She guesses Romelle hasn’t told them either –– she feels, suddenly, guilty she’s told Coran. She’s had someone to speak to, someone to process with. Romelle is alone among them, and they can’t bring her home. She sighs. “You’re right,” she says, and looks past Lance towards the blonde.

 

They don’t talk for a few days, despite that. It’s Romelle who decides to do it, who taps Allura’s shoulder and offers her a smile. “I, uh,” says Romelle softly, and wrinkles her nose. “I realize I’m not a lot of help in the effort.”

 

“Against the Galra?” says Allura disbelievingly. “You served as evidence against Lotor –– that in itself was enough.”

 

“And now?” responds Romelle, and Allura cringes inwardly. She realizes too late she’s said the wrong thing and basically confirmed Romelle’s anxiety. It’s true, though. Romelle doesn’t –– can’t –– do much for the team. But Allura’s felt the same way at points on their journey. She’s mulling over how to try to comfort Romelle when Romelle blurts, “Teach me to fight.”

 

“What?”

 

“I couldn’t help my brother,” says Romelle simply. “I couldn’t save him then, and I couldn’t do anything against Lotor. I’d like to learn how to fight.” She pauses and scratches at something on her upper arm. “If you’d like that, I mean. I know…”

 

“No,” says Allura quickly. “I’d be honored.”

 

Romelle’s smile is fleeting, but brilliant –– warm and hopeful and kind. Allura loses herself in it in the moment it’s there, is suddenly reminded of their connection. _Soulmates,_ something in her whispers. She holds out her hand cautiously. “What do you know about combat? Do you have a weapon of choice?”

 

Romelle doesn’t take her hand, just stares at it. Like she’s trying to figure out what Allura wants, what Romelle herself wants. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’d like to learn a weapon distinctly Altean, though. Despite being strategically logical…” she pauses, looks up to Allura as if she knows this may not be the reasoning Allura wants to hear, “because, of course, the Galra aren’t trained to fight Alteans...I’d also like to be a little more connected to home.”

 

 _Home._ Allura hasn’t called Altea home in ten thousand years. Romelle has never even been to Altea, barely knows what it was. Something in her blooms a bit, the knowledge that Altea would eventually be forgotten shifting as Allura remembers anew that there are Alteans to preserve her culture. “I, um,” says Allura, pausing. “I know some Altean weaponry. I’m adequate with a bow?”

 

Romelle makes a face of indifference. She clearly does not want to use a bow. Allura thinks for a moment, mulls over the years of lessons her father had put her through. He’d expected her to be a paladin. “My father used the Altean broadsword,” says Allura finally. “I can teach you that as well.”

 

Romelle brightens. “I keep seeing Keith with a sword,” she admits. “I’ve been jealous.”

 

Allura snorts. “Keith and pointy objects,” she says and laughs again. “A match made in...no, what’s the Terran phrase? A pair from the sky? Made in the sky?” Romelle tilts her head and Allura shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, then pulls out her bayard. “Let me show you some techniques.”

 

They fall into a pattern, then. Allura pesters Coran, Hunk, and Pidge to replicate Lance’s broadsword for Romelle, and they spar each time they land on a new planet. Sometimes the other paladins watch, but mostly the two are alone. Allura likes it this way, the quiet huffs and intakes of breath as Romelle focuses, the clang of bayard against metal and grunts. It’s not feminine, not _princess-like_ , the way they twist together and away, the way their forms spiral as Allura adds yet another flourish for the sake of dramatics.

 

Romelle decides she likes it, the grit of training. Allura beams –– she’s always favored it to other royal duties.  

 

Occasionally Allura helps Romelle with her form. It’s not unusual for their bodies to be pressed close as Allura maneuvers Romelle’s limbs into the correct position, though sometimes she notices herself leaning too much into Romelle’s sweet-smelling hair or the curve between Romelle’s neck and shoulder.

 

Slowly, Allura comes to know Romelle through battle. She learns Romelle’s tell first, and then shows Romelle her own tell –– the way that Allura’s shoulders always rise before she strikes. Romelle’s knees always lower a bit, her stance solidifying, right before she tosses herself into the match.

 

They don’t talk much. Romelle doesn’t seem to talk much, anyway. They battle and Allura gives her advice, Romelle thanks her, and they don’t speak again. Sometimes Romelle tosses out an insult or goads her. Allura is always burning to ask about the colony, but refrains. She knows she wouldn’t want anyone to grill her about Altea; it feels too sacred for that. She can only imagine Romelle feels the same way. Regardless, what questions she can’t help but ask are always answered noncommittally.

 

The first time Allura realizes where they’re heading, they’re sparring.

 

It’s on a desert planet, so they’re forced to train in the heat, and Allura strips into shorts and what Pidge calls a “sports bra” that Coran manages to dig up. She knows it’s a bit risque (Lance calls her out on it with some surprise), but Romelle does the same thing to avoid the heat. It makes the match a bit more intimate, a bit more charged with an emotion Allura’s not sure she wants to name.

 

It’s distracting, though. The glint of sweat beading down Romelle’s exposed neck to her collar bone. The rosiness of her shoulders, the heat rising in her cheeks. Her thighs, her stomach, abs beginning to define themselves. Allura has been taught to love the royalty, taught to love the delicate primness of Altean culture, but it is when Romelle is angry and in the grit of battle that she steals Allura’s breath away.

 

She almost clips Allura’s cheek before Allura pulls herself back into the moment. Romelle’s winning smile makes her knees a little weak, and Allura tries to cram the feeling down from wherever it came from, fighting a blush herself. She’d been _ogling_ her sparring partner. Even if Romelle is her soulmate.

 

“You okay there, princess?” says Romelle and snorts.

 

Allura cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow, feigns to the right. She waits just for Romelle to come up to attack her and then twists to the left and under, driving towards Romelle’s exposed stomach.

 

Romelle staggers, surprised but not to be outdone. She swings her own blade at the last moment and the clang of meeting metal echoes throughout the muggy air. Allura feels sweat trickle down her neck and wipes her forehead. She rarely responds to Romelle, who oftens taunts her during their spars. Allura gets the feeling this is what Romelle is like, switching between confident and meek at a whim.

 

A laugh bubbles up in her throat as they return to fighting up and down the sandy patch of land. Just as Allura has pushed Romelle to the edge of the designated arena, Romelle responds with a counterattack of her own and drives Allura down towards the opposite end of the pitch.

 

They hardly stay in line. Allura jumps over rocks to try to maintain a head over Romelle, but rarely remains in place. Sometimes Romelle tries to swing behind her to attack Allura’s unguarded back.

  
There’s another lull where they pull apart, flushed and panting, swords still pointed, waiting for the other to strike. Allura keeps an eye on Romelle’s knee, but her gaze keeps flickering to Romelle’s lips, which are bitten in concentration. Romelle’s purple eyes are flashing with determination, brows drawn close together.

 

 _Oh_ , thinks Allura faintly as she struggles to keep her sword up. _This is what it’s like._

 

When Romelle strikes and Allura, exhausted, watches her bayard be tossed beyond her, she just raises her arms up, imagines the color of her own skin against Romelle’s. _Oh no_ , she thinks as Romelle smirks and offers her a hand. The contact ignites a fire up her arm, and her fingers tingle long after Romelle has let go.

 

“You let me win,” accuses Romelle, and Allura shrugs.

 

“I always do,” she says, and it’s true, but this time her voice is laden with something Allura doesn’t mean to have conveyed. If Romelle notices, she doesn’t say anything, just sighs. “You’ve improved very quickly,” says Allura, but what she means, is: _I think I’m falling for you and I don’t think I should be surprised._

 

“Hm,” says Romelle, and smiles over to Allura. “I suppose I have.”

 

They still don’t talk very much, but something shifts. Romelle starts to sit next to Allura instead of Krolia during dinners. Sometimes Lance will waggle his brows at her and Allura will flush, noticing Romelle do the same. She wonders how much the team knows –– she’s never explained this part of being Altean to them before. Usually she got colors right based on the way the quintessence felt. It’s strange, now that she doesn’t have to concentrate so much.

 

Romelle catches her one day up late, long after everyone has fallen asleep. Allura is pacing Blue, trying to find something to do. She can’t sleep more often than she can, and tonight all her dreams have been about her father, about Zarkon’s eyes, about Lotor’s smile corrupted with quintessence.

 

“Allura?” says Romelle, startling her.

 

“I––I, sorry. I didn’t realize you were awake,” says Allura, snapping the book she was holding closed. It’s a book she borrowed from Hunk a while ago, but never returned. (He’d never asked, either).

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” says Romelle shyly. “After my brother…”

 

Allura nods. “I can only imagine,” she says, thinking about Romelle’s description of Bandor after what Lotor had done to him. “What the Galra did to your family, Romelle…” she pauses. “What _Lotor_ did to your family is inexcusable.”

 

Romelle shrugs, walks a little closer to Allura. Allura notices this closing gap with some nervousness, thinks about Romelle’s hands on her own hips and tries not to shiver with the possibility. If she’s blushing, she hopes the darkness of her lion covers it up. “Why are you up?” asks Romelle quietly.

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” echoes Allura. “I was thinking about my own family.”

 

Romelle hums, lets a beat pass. “What were they like –– if you don’t mind me asking?” She ducks her head in something akin to embarrassment, and it’s all Allura can do to keep herself from raising Romelle’s chin with her own hand. She realizes with a pang how much she’s wanted to talk about her family, but never been given the chance.

 

“No, no,” she says, and watches Romelle’s gaze come up to meet her own again. “I’d love to tell you about them. My father…”

 

She begins slowly, unsurely, with how much she loves him. Her speech is halting at first, but once she relaxes, it ends up in a rush, her rambling speech about her mother, her father, her grandparents. She cries, of course, and Romelle brushes the tears away with her fingertips, moving over the pink sickles under Allura’s eye. She’s sure her cheeks turn a similar color at the movement. There’s an old Altean fable about collecting tears of mythical beasts. One creature’s sadness can save another’s life.

 

Allura sniffles and Romelle pulls her into a hug, shushes her. “I know,” says Romelle softly, over and over again. “I understand,” she says, like she can feel Allura’s deep grief.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Allura in a watery voice. “I never… I haven’t been able to spend any time grieving.” She coughs out a broken, mangled laugh. “I haven’t even been able to give them a proper Altean funeral. I don’t know if I remember how. If I remember enough.” She’s silent for a moment, trying to quell the sobs beginning to build in her chest, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. She realizes she’s afraid she doesn’t know enough about Altea to preserve its memory, anyway.

 

Romelle shakes her head. “The colony has people who remember, who remembered. Between you and our records, Allura, there is enough. You don’t need to shoulder all this.”

 

 _I never had to_ , thinks Allura, feels another pang of anger slice its way through her, and buries her head into Romelle’s shoulder.

 

“You don’t hate me,” says Allura after a pause, “because of who I was to Lotor, though?” It comes out more like a question than intended, shyer. Part of the reason Allura has been avoiding Romelle is because she doesn’t know how to deal with this –– her relationship with Lotor, if it was ever even that.

 

Romelle’s eyes widen as she pulls away. “Allura –– no. You didn’t know.”

 

“I kissed him,” says Allura bleakly. “I…I think I hated it.”

 

Romelle snorts. “For some reason, I find the fact Lotor’s a bad kisser comforting,” she says. “Seeing as he murdered my family and all.” Allura laughs, too, because she knows the feeling, imagines Zarkon as a bad kisser as well. “The messiah,” continues Romelle in a voice imitating a computer, “weaknesses: could not kiss.”

 

Allura laughs harder, clutches her sides as she struggles to breathe. Romelle gives her a quirked smile, one that does not help –– her breath is snatched away just as she recovers it, and Allura fights down a blush. “Seriously though,” she says after a while. “I don’t think I ever loved him.”

 

“You don’t have to explain anything,” says Romelle.

 

“I’m not!” protests Allura, and reaches over to poke Romelle. Romelle grunts and swats her hand away. “I just…I think I needed to talk to someone about it. It’s weird, though. I don’t think I’m heartbroken. Just––” she struggles for the word, pauses “––angry? He caused me so much pain, and he couldn’t even kiss.”

 

Romelle snorts, but it’s not as lighthearted as before. “Why pursue him, then?” she says after a while.

 

Allura shrugs, thinks about it. “He knew so much about Altea,” she says quietly. “Things I didn’t know, things about alchemy. He’s had the past ten thousand years to recover all this information about my home, things I will never know.” She hugs herself, watches Romelle’s expression fall. “It’s hard not to cling onto familiarity, once you’ve lost everything,” says Allura finally.

 

“I think I liked it better when we were calling him a bad kisser,” says Romelle in turn, and Allura laughs.

 

“Tell me about your family,” prompts Allura after a pause. “If you want, I mean.”

 

Romelle does. She starts with her brother, quiet at first. Allura learns Romelle laughs through grief, makes jokes about how horrible Lotor’s betrayal was and her loneliness. She can’t imagine discovering a family’s death the way Romelle did. Only then, once Romelle has run out of jokes, does she cry.

  
Allura holds her tenderly, trying to remember how Romelle comforted her. “I don’t have a family anymore,” says Romelle into Allura’s shoulder.

 

“No,” says Allura immediately, and then blushes. “No, you’re part of ours now.”

 

After that, they settle into another pattern, when neither of them can sleep. Sometimes Romelle tells her a little more about the colony, about her family. Allura likes this and offers Romelle tales of Altea and her own family in turn. It becomes another ritual between them, staying up late and exchanging stories. It becomes another way for Allura to grieve, this time in the company of someone who understands a little better what she’s lost.

 

“My mother and I didn’t get along as well as we could have,” Allura admits one day on another planet, long after everyone has gone to sleep. She rustles her uniform, sitting on the floor of the blue lion. “I always resented the idea of being a princess.” She laughs at that, remembers her mother’s annoyance. Romelle laughs too, a little disbelievingly.

 

“You matured so well,” says Romelle sarcastically, and Allura smacks her arm. Romelle giggles. “I’m serious, though, Allura, despite all the sparring and all that, you act so –– I don’t know, dignified all the time.”

 

“Well, didn’t you hear?” says Allura, and gives Romelle a wicked smile. “There’s a war going on.”

 

It shouldn’t be funny –– it _isn’t_ –– but it sends them into peals of laughter, the kind with snorts and ugly faces and wide smiles. It’s the sort of laughter Allura knows her mother would resent, that eight-year-old Allura cherished, because it was so uncommon among those who lived in the castle. The sentiment hits her suddenly, and that Romelle is the one that draws it out of her.

 

Romelle seems to have come to a similar thought, because they both pause and the air thickens with something Allura has yet to acknowledge. Romelle’s eyes lock with Allura’s, and then flit down conspicuously to Allura’s lips. Allura breathes in, watches how Romelle’s shoulders tense and loosen in response.

 

Romelle moves her arm closer, moves her fingers towards where Allura’s are splayed across the ground. Allura feels her eyes widen, watches her own pinky move over Romelle’s and is surprised by how her whole arm erupts, every nerve tingling and pulling her closer. Like Romelle has suddenly gained exponentially more mass and Allura can feel her gravitational pull.

 

They pause, pinkies interlocking, and Allura looks back over to Romelle, who is watching her fondly. There’s something in her eyes Allura is afraid to name, an openness on her face. “What?” she says, feeling defensive and suddenly shy, but doesn’t pull her pinky away.

 

“You look…” Romelle pauses, looks Allura up and down, and Allura flushes under Romelle’s gaze. “This lighting is really nice,” she finishes lamely, and some part of Allura sighs in relief. The other part of her, though, shrinks back in disappointment, boos Romelle. She’s surprised at how much she wants this, how much she wants to tack her lips against Romelle, how she wants to succumb to gravity.

 

Allura hums in agreement, uses her other hand to push a strand of Romelle’s hair out of her face. She watches Romelle blush and suddenly remembers what she’s doing. “I should get to bed,” she says, flushing. “It’s late.”

 

After all, it’s Romelle who rejected the possibility of anything, citing Lotor. (Like Allura has given Lotor one romantic thought. Like Allura is heartbroken so much as disgusted with who the prince was. Like Allura could ever love Lotor the way she’s supposed to love her soulmate). Romelle’s blue  markings are dim in the blue lion’s light, in the darkness of space.

 

She gets up hurriedly and tries to sleep.

 

There’s a lot more touching, after that. Allura finds excuses to rest her arm on Romelle’s shoulder; Romelle uses every chance to brush their hands. Allura is surprised by how often she’s struck with the desire to hold Romelle’s hand and writes it off as inevitable attraction. You’re supposed to be drawn to your soulmate, she reasons. That’s all this is.

 

When they spar, it’s charged with a different kind of energy, more brutal and emotional. Allura’s swings are harder; Romelle’s jabs are faster. They’re panting and weak-kneed much more quickly than before, where it had seemed almost leisurely. They fight like there’s something to lose.

 

What’s worse is Allura catches herself watching Romelle. She notices Romelle after she’s bathed, hair wet and droplets running down her nose; Romelle while she’s laughing, head tilted up and crinkles around her eyes; Romelle thinking and chewing her lip, like no one’s looking.

 

She always flushes and turns away when Romelle catches her, though, tries to pretend she wasn’t looking.

 

“Allura,” says Romelle one day, struggling with the clasp of a necklace. They’re preparing for another meeting with their allies as Allura explains their situation, that they’ll be on Earth rebuilding. “Could you help me with this?”

 

“Sure.” Allura steps across the lion to take the clasp. Her hand brushes over Romelle’s neck and Romelle breathes in sharply, shivers. “Sorry, my fingers are a bit cold,” says Allura, and then drags them down Romelle’s back with a wicked smile. Romelle convulses with surprise, body jolting and Allura just barely manages to snatch the necklace before it flies across the floor, giggling.

 

“A _bit_!” says Romelle indignantly, and turns to face Allura. There’s a smile on her own face, though. She grabs Allura’s hand, blanketing them in her own. Allura is struck by how close they are, Romelle’s warmth against her own fingers. She blushes, fingering the necklace.

 

“Let me put this on you,” she says quickly. “Turn around again.”

“As long as you don’t do _that_ again,” says Romelle, but turns obligingly. Allura fiddles with the clasp and is quick to put it on Romelle, feeling the blush grow as she admires Romelle’s slender neck and soft skin. “Done?” Romelle’s voice is impatient, and Allura snorts. “How long can it take?”

 

“I’m done, I’m done,” says Allura and hits Romelle lightly on the shoulder. “You could barely do the clasp on your own!” She turns in the lion; it’s getting a bit crowded, and living in Blue has been difficult, especially since she has been sharing quarters with both Romelle and Coran. “I think I have a dress for you.”

 

Romelle looks down to her own outfit and frowns. It’s kind of cute, her pout, Allura finds herself thinking, and then reminds herself that this sort of thinking isn’t appropriate. (Too late, a small part of her whispers). “I can’t wear this?” she says petulantly and Allura giggles, shakes her head. “Can I at least wear _pants_?”

 

Allura pauses here. “Um,” she says, and then tilts her head. “I think I can find something for you. Are you the same size as any of the paladins?”

 

Romelle laughs. “Yes,” she says dryly. “Pidge and I share shorts all the time. That’s why I only wear this.”

 

Allura laughs as well, shoves Romelle gently. “Shut up,” she says, and looks through her boxes. “I can give you something of mine, maybe? I think I have a suit I never wear…” She actually knows she does, just isn’t sure if it’s survived the ten thousand years. She’d asked for it right before the war broke out, to spite her mother. She’d almost cut her hair short, too.

 

Romelle perks up at that and Allura digs a little more vigorously, just to see if she can make Romelle smile wider. She’s pleased when she finds it, too, surprised that it’s the color of Romelle’s markings. “Oh,” says Allura, holding it up. She’s never seen it in color before. Her mother must have chosen that color on purpose. She looks over to Romelle sheepishly. “It might be a little out of date, fashion-wise,” she says apologetically.

 

Romelle looks at it, and then Allura, and then at the suit again. “It’s perfect,” she says in a tone that makes Allura nearly swoon. _She_ caused Romelle to sound like that, to look so happy. “I’ll try it on?” she says, and Allura nods, not trusting herself to speak. Romelle pauses. “There’s, uh…not a lot of space,” says Romelle, and looks at Allura pointedly.

 

“I won’t look!” responds Allura, blushing hotly. She turns and pulls out her favorite of the two dresses she’s holding and folds the other gently. This one is dark purple-blue, with gold up the bottom. It reminds her of a starry sky, which is why she’s picked it. “You’ll have to do the same thing for me when you’re done, though,” says Allura after a pause.

 

Romelle grunts in response. There’s another pause, and then she says, “Okay, you can turn around now.” Allura does, and then promptly forgets how to breath.

 

It turns out the suit fits Romelle better than it ever did Allura –– it’s baby blue and has tails, what Hunk called a penguin suit once. Romelle is tugging at a sleeve, clearly anxious, but Allura’s forgotten how to form coherent words. All her brain is supplying her with is a steady string of “okay okay okay okay okay” and Allura’s not sure what, exactly, _that_ means.

 

“Is it okay?” says Romelle finally, and Allura nods vigorously, not sure how else to communicate right now. “It smells like you,” adds Romelle, and Allura’s pretty sure she dies in that instant and floats onto the plane of existence she _just_ rescued Shiro from. _You better save my soul as well_ , Allura accuses Blue in a moment of comprehensibility.

 

 _Don’t be a drama queen,_ responds Blue.

 

“I––um,” Allura clears her throat, “Will you turn around?” Romelle nods, and does, and Allura quickly slips on her own gown, trying to calm the blush. She fiddles with it –– it’s sleeveless, before coughing and saying, “You can look now, I guess.”

 

When Romelle looks at Allura, her face becomes immediately blank. Allura shifts, awkward, unsure what this mean. “That bad?” she says, trying to keep the hurt from her voice. She’d thought this dress looked good on her. “Should I try the other one?” She scratches at her arm.

 

Romelle’s eyes widen. “No!” she shouts, and then reddens. “I, uh, mean…no, this one looks really good, Allura. You look…really good.”

 

Allura smiles, relieved. “You’re sure it’s not the lighting,” she says teasingly, and watches Romelle turn, impossibly, a shade darker. “I’m only joking,” she says when Romelle splutters, and swivels. “I think I had some better earrings,” she adds, glancing down at the box of jewelry she keeps. “Do you think these gold ones are good?”

 

Romelle nods, but doesn’t say anything. There’s a brief silence where Allura takes out her purple ones and puts on the other earrings, then slips on some bracelets and a couple rings. She’s enjoying how much her appearance seems to affect Romelle, like at least Allura isn’t the only one who feels their connection. They’re _soulmates_ , after all; shouldn’t Allura be, at least, noticeable to Romelle?

 

“Will you apply my lipgloss?” says Allura, struggling to keep a wicked grin inside. “There’s no mirror,” she adds innocently, and hands Romelle the pink tube. Romelle nods and smiles back conspiratorially in response, like she knows exactly what Allura’s playing at. She takes the tube and squirts it onto her index finger instead, watching Allura breath in unsteadily.

 

Romelle smirks and drags her index finger across Allura’s bottom lip; Allura can’t help but shiver. “Hold still,” says Romelle, and she’s so close Allura can feel her breath on Allura’s nose. She applies it gently, swiping slowly and watching Allura squirm beneath her. “This is a pretty color,” says Romelle. “We don’t have this on the colony.”

 

“Hm?” says Allura, and Romelle dabs at the corner of her mouth.

 

Romelle shakes her head, laughs. “We dress for practicality, Princess,” she murmurs, and the way she says ‘princess’ makes a chill go down Allura’s spin. She pulls away then, and Allura’s both relieved that she can breathe, and disappointed for the intimate moment to be broken.

 

“Guys,” says an impatient Pidge. Both girls startle and look over to the paladin. Allura wonders how long Pidge has been watching them. “We’re going to be late. Let’s go.”

 

Allura nods shakily, and before she can stop herself, holds out her hand to Romelle. “Okay,” she says. Romelle pauses, then takes her hand, nodding. (Allura pretends that the reason her heart picks up its pace is because she’s nervous. She tells herself that she doesn’t feel anything towards Romelle, that she isn’t falling for her).

 

(Allura’s never been a great liar).

 

They arrive on the planet just in time for the ceremony. Once Allura has given her speech about recalibration and about recent victories, the celebration begins and she’s pleasantly surprised by how much everyone seems to relax. It’s as if they’ve all needed a reason to let loose. Even Coran seems thankful not to be on his toes.

 

She spends some time with the natives, listening to stories about Voltron and doing her best to be polite. It’s awkward, of course, it always is, but diplomacy is necessary in times like these. “I always wanted to be a paladin,” she tells the group with rosy cheeks. “Ever since my father created Voltron.”

 

They ooh and she smiles again. “We are thankful that you are, Princess Allura,” responds a leader and she dips her head. Coran appears by her side and touches her arm cautiously.

 

“Allura,” he says softly, and she turns towards him.

 

“Excuse me,” she says to the aliens, then looks over to Coran. His eyes are soft and crinkled, like he concerned for her. She hasn’t spoken to him about Romelle very much, partially out of guilt and partially to avoid the conversation she knows he’ll direct her to. He motions his head towards the walls of the room, and Allura squints.

 

Romelle is by herself, leaning against a pillar. Allura makes a soft noise of surprise and Coran nods. “Go talk to her, Princess,” he says in a surprisingly chipper tone. Allura looks at Romelle, playing with her nails and not making eye contact with anyone, then across the room to see if she can find Keith, who usually sticks by Romelle’s side at these sort of events.

 

She’s not surprised to find him in hot debate with Lance.

 

Allura considers for a moment, and then crosses the room swiftly. She’s tired of speaking to strangers, anyway. “Hello,” says Allura once she’s reached Romelle’s side. She curtsies and puts on an expression she knows would make her mother beam, a sort of blank but royal expression. “On my planet, when we see someone of interest acting like a wallflower, we ask them to dance,” she adds, hoping Romelle will get what she means. She’s referencing the old Altean way of courting. Step one was three dances, to get to know a partner.

 

Romelle’s expression remains blank, though. “Someone of interest,” she echoes in a confused tone, and Allura frowns.

 

“A…you know.”

 

“I really don’t, Princess,” says Romelle, and Allura sighs.

 

“The way to demonstrate interest and present yourself as a suitor is to ask someone to dance.” She pauses. “Usually, it’s the person in a suit––” she motions to Romelle, who blushes “––but, much to my mother’s chagrin, I’ve never been very traditional.” She holds out her hand and sucks in a breath.

 

Romelle’s expression relaxes. “How very radical of you,” she says and rolls her eyes, but takes Allura’s hand for the second time that night. “I would love to dance.”

 

And they do. Three times. Though Allura has to lean in and whisper the relevance of three dances to Romelle –– usually, an acceptance of someone’s request to court them –– and watch Romelle’s cheeks pink, it’s actually quite enjoyable. Allura has to lead, because Romelle doesn’t know how to dance in the old Altean style, and she finds herself a little light-headed by their closeness, by how Romelle looks at her.

 

Because –– because Romelle doesn’t look at her the way Lotor did, expectant and knowing. Romelle looks a little nervous, shyer, but with a steel in her eye like she’s ready to take whatever Allura throws at her. Like she’s not waiting for Allura so much as willing to have what Allura wants to give.

 

It’s absolutely refreshing, not being waited for. Like Allura doesn’t _need_ to do anything, like Romelle is just happy to be in Allura’s orbit. And Allura’s surprised by how happy she is just like this, not going further, content with their closeness and Romelle’s softening expression, and Allura chooses, for once, to recognize the charged air between them.

 

 _Desire_ , she thinks, and sweeps Romelle across the dance floor, _a sense of almost_.

 

She feels it when they spar the next time, just as harsh and just as violent as before. This time Allura is trying out the staff, enjoying how it is to flip the edges to meet Romelle’s blade and twisting the metal between her fingers. Romelle looks a little distracted, though, the way Allura felt on the desert planet, like she’s just seeing Allura for the first time.

 

She’s got the look on her face that Lance had when she fell into his arms when they first met, the look that Matt had during their first encounter, but Allura isn’t annoyed this time by it. She likes being looked at this way when it’s Romelle, she realizes, swinging her staff up just as Romelle tries to swing from above.

 

“Almost got you there,” says Romelle tauntingly, and Allura snorts.

 

“As if,” she responds, and ducks to dodge another swipe. She takes the opportunity to try to hit at Romelle’s legs; Romelle jumps at the last moment and strikes Allura’s staff as Allura rises. They remain locked in that position for a moment, tension rising. Allura sees the steely look of determination of Romelle’s face, sure her own bares the same expression.

 

She’s surprised, once more, by how _attractive_ Romelle is like this, brows drawn to look almost malicious. Her arms begin to tremble under the force of the broadsword; Romelle sees them shake and shoots Allura a winning grin that makes Allura a little weak in the knees. She frowns and switches the angle of the staff to parry Romelle’s next strike. The clang of metal rings throughout the room.

 

Allura, unused to the weapon, is on the defensive; Romelle continues to push her backwards as she makes continuous thrust. Her breathing becomes labored as Allura tries to match Romelle swing for swing, turning the staff and trying to look to see if she can sidestep. When she does turn her head, she’s barely able to block another swipe from Romelle, and she’s dismayed to see a wall to close for her to escape.

  
She considers going through Romelle’s legs, but Romelle’s stance is still too narrow (she makes a mental note to point this out later) for her to slide easily through. Allura gulps, focusing on the ringing metal and considering using alchemy to cheat –– would Romelle notice?

 

She’s so focused that she’s surprised when her back hits the wall suddenly and Allura nearly drops her staff. Romelle takes this opportunity to leap forward and Allura just barely blocks her, staff held inches from her own face. She can feel Romelle’s sharp breathes against her face as her arms begin to shake again from Romelle’s weight.

 

“Come on, Allura,” says Romelle with a grunt. “I’ve got you pinned.”

 

“I see that,” bites out Allura and adjusts her grip on her staff. Her fingers are burning from clenching too hard. She considers her options –– she barely has enough control to push Romelle away, and there’s nowhere to go, unless she surrenders, which, under no conditions, is Allura prepared to do.

 

She looks again at Romelle’s lips, at Romelle’s heaving chest and stops herself from licking her own lips.

 

An idea hits her then, and she grins wickedly. She throws her staff, using the force to knock Romelle’s sword away along with her own weapon. Romelle’s face quickly becomes shocked, but Allura doesn’t give her a chance to scramble after it, cupping Romelle’s cheeks and pulling her close.

 

And then –– they’re kissing. They’re _kissing_ and it’s awkward, at first, because Romelle is shocked, but the Romelle’s hands settle at her hips and the kiss deepens. It’s electric. Every nerve stands on end and she presses herself close to Romelle, moves her hands to throw her arms around her to try and pull them closer, tangles one of them in Romelle’s soft blonde hair.

 

Romelle makes a little noise and pushes her against the wall, lips quirking up into a smile. Allura nearly faints.

 

But suddenly Romelle freezes and stiffens underneath Allura’s palms, and she untangles the two of them. When Allura looks at her quizzically, Romelle is deep red and wearing a frown. “Allura,” she says breathily, and then shakes her head, clears her throat. “Allura,” she says again. “I _can’t_. I’m not––”

 

“Romelle,” responds Allura as Romelle turns to pick up her sword, grabs Romelle’s hand. “You’re not what?” she says, tilting her head.

 

Romelle blinks at her. “I’m sorry,” she says, bends down to pick up her sword, and walks away.

 

Allura stands there stunned for a while, unsure of what to do. She realizes she’s overstepped, that she’s betrayed whatever trust Romelle has finally given her, remembers what Romelle had said to her. _I can’t_ , she’d said before as well, the first time she’d rejected Allura. The corners of Allura’s eyes sting; she wipes at them with the back of her palm.

 

She can’t seem to get it right around Romelle.

 

They go back to the awkward avoidance that they had at first, though this time is worse, because Allura keeps catching herself staring at the blonde and noticing Romelle staring right back. “She doesn’t trust me,” explains Allura when Coran questions why Allura doesn’t just _talk_ to her. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

The other paladins start to notice, slowly. Hunk offers her some chocolate that he’s managed to make. Pidge gives her an awkward hug. Lance gives her a thoroughly embarrassing ‘heartbreak’ talk that makes her laugh instead of cry, and Keith just stands there, watching Lance flail. Shiro gives her a ‘there are other fish in the sea’ talk that makes her stare at him blankly. “She’s my _soulmate_ ,” says Allura exasperatedly, and then shuts her mouth, realizes she hadn’t meant to bring that up.

 

Shiro frowns. “That’s a bit dramatic, Allura.”

 

“I’m not being dramatic,” she snaps. “Alteans are able to see in color only once they’ve met their soulmate. It’s a way of recognizing one another.” She fiddles with her sleeve, not meeting his eye. Saying it aloud makes her realize how much she’s quiznak’d up ––  Romelle is all that’s there for her.

 

“Oh,” says Shiro awkwardly, and then makes an expression Allura can only assume is him scrolling through a mental library of speeches. “You should talk to her,” he settles on finally. “If you’re her soulmate, then she’ll be able to understand why you did what you did and forgive you. You guys are made for each other,” he says, and pauses. “I think. You just have to figure it out.”

 

“Thanks, Shiro,” says Allura, thoroughly unconvinced.

 

He pats her back. “You’ve got this, Allura.”

 

She doesn’t. She just throws herself back into the war effort, instead. It’s what Allura has done to deal with grief; a broken heart should be no different, she thinks. There’s always a lot to do, anyway. Allura has to reassure that Voltron isn’t irreparably damaged, that they just need a point of operation, for example.

 

Some leaders lose faith quickly because they know Voltron won’t be around for a bit; Allura distracts herself by working hard to find them defenses and make sure that the Galra won’t attack while they’re travelling to Earth. She also has to communicate with planetary leaders of the planets they pitstop at for food, supplies, and rest.

 

And then there’s planning routes, making sure that they’re out of the eyes of Haggar, and researching with Coran. Their directories are a little out of date, too, but this just adds an extra challenge for Allura to lose herself in. It’s easy to block out Romelle, almost. As if she doesn’t notice Romelle whenever she’s in the room, and then also her absence when she’s not. As if Allura isn’t hyper aware of their distance at all times.

 

“You _need_ to talk to her,” Coran tells Allura one day as she pauses mid speech because Romelle has entered the lion. “You both need to talk.”

 

Allura glances at Romelle and flushes. Romelle looks at Allura and casts her gaze downwards. “Do not make me lock you in a room,” adds Coran, and Allura whirls around to smack him. This is a reference to the worst fight she had with her mother, where she wouldn’t speak to her for days. Her father’s response was to keep them in a room until Allura talked.

 

Allura wishes, now, that she’d been kinder to her own mother.

 

Romelle looks at them with a confused expression, and Allura sighs. Coran’s right. She should say something. She takes a deep breath, shoos Coran away, and collects her thoughts. “Romelle,” she says finally. “I’m sorry. I overstepped, and I should have…” Allura pauses. “I shouldn’t have let my competitive nature get the best of me,” she settles on. “I should have thought about your boundaries.”

 

Romelle blinks. “I don’t care that you kissed me, Allura,” she says, and Allura feels her eyebrows draw closer together. “It’s just…” she turns to look away from Allura and rubs her upper arm anxiously. “I sometimes feel like I’m not the soulmate you wanted,” she says finally.

 

“What do you mean?” It comes out like an incredulous whisper. “I didn’t even think I _had_ a soulmate.”

 

Romelle shakes her head. “You love Altea so much,” she says slowly, “and I hated the colony. I wanted nothing to do with it. No one liked me, Allura. When Keith and Krolia came –– I was _so_ thankful.” Allura steps closer towards her, and Romelle takes another step back. “I’m never going to be that perfect bridge for you.”

 

“Romelle,” says Allura again, but her voice is breaking. “I don’t want you to be a bridge.” She thinks about being a teenager again, before she lost everything. “I used to hate Altea, you know,” she says, and sniffles. “Well. Not hate, but –– I was so frustrated.” She steps forward again, and this time Romelle lets her come close, lets her wrap her arms around the other girl.

 

She starts off slow, and tells the whole story this time. How she was an insolent teenager. How she despised what it meant to be a princess. How often she fought with her mother. How she wanted so badly to get off Altea and explore. She hates herself for it now, she tells Romelle, how ungrateful she was for her home. It wasn’t that Allura didn’t want anything to do with Altea, just the parts that she was born into. Allura has always wanted to be an alchemist, to explore on her own terms, but now that she has the option, all she wants is to be a stuck-up brat again.

 

Romelle listens to her speak without talking much, hums. “War does a lot to you,” says Allura once she’s done speaking, and Romelle breaks out of her arms to press thumbs against Allura’s cheeks. It’s then she realizes she’s crying, and stills as she watches Romelle brush away her tears.

 

They lock eyes for a moment, and Allura’s world comes to a standstill. “What do you want, then?” says Romelle after a pause, and Allura frowns in concentration.

 

What does she want? She wants her mother back. She wants to rewind ten thousand years. She wants to kiss more girls, sleep in a little more, learn how to cook all those recipes she’d never even bothered to look at. It’s a little better now, maybe, that she knows that this was fated, that Allura was destined to sleep for so long, that she was destined to lose her home. At least it wasn’t an accident. At least she has _someone._ What does she want? She mulls it over.

 

“This,” she settles on, and intertwines her fingers with Romelle. “To heal. To come to terms with what happened to Altea, maybe.”

 

“And the colony?”

 

Allura thinks about this. She hasn’t been able to decide what she wants from the colony. The idea of Alteans, however, dizzying, makes her worried that she’ll be too different. Romelle barely knows the customs most instilled in her; she doubts the other Alteans will be any different. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “I think I want a home.”

 

Romelle blinks at her, startled by how simple Allura’s wish is. “Not a second Altea?” she says, and Allura shrugs. She’s not sure anymore if asking the colony to be a second Altea is fair. She’s not sure if she’ll ever be happy if she asks for a second Altea, or if she’ll only ever see the imperfections. She’s not sure anymore of anything about the colony, just knows that she has to meet the people, live among them for a while.

 

“You’re enough,” she says quietly, and Romelle snorts.

 

“You’re so cheesy,” says Romelle, and watches Allura carefully. It’s like she’s deciding what, exactly, _she_ wants, whether or not she wants what Allura wants. Allura lets her think, even turns away before Romelle catches her wrist. “Hey,” says Romelle softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“What do you want, then,” whispers Allura, almost afraid of Romelle’s answer. She sees Romelle’s expression shift from surprised to pleased, though, so she knows she’s said the right thing. She bites her lip as Romelle opens her mouth and then closes it again a couple times, clearly trying to word an escaping thought.

 

“I don’t know,” says Romelle finally, but her grip on Allura’s hand tightens. “I think I want a home,” she echoes and smiles at Allura. Allura’s struck by the tenderness of Romelle’s expression, soft eyes and pinked cheeks and expectancy. Not the the kind where she expects Allura to go to the ends of the universe for her, but the kind that asks Allura to stay by her side, just for a moment longer.

 

“Oh,” says Allura, and this time, it’s Romelle who surges forward to make their lips meet, and Allura who melts into her touch. Romelle tastes sweet, and surprisingly, like home.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for making it to the end of this fic ! im @softalluras on tumblr (vld sideblog) or @nooreva (main) come talk to me abt this ship or maybe tell me their ship name lmao..., if u liked this fic also consider commenting bc i thrive off validation (-: 
> 
> as always thank u iz for my entire life & being such a good editor even tho u dont even watch vld what on EARTH would i do without u


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